


softly

by procrastinatingbookworm



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cold Weather, Cuddling, M/M, Short & Sweet, my friend is cold and feverish so obviously i had to write a soft plotless drabble, one of those tiny one-draft drabbles, to be edited and added to when i have more time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 16:54:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16453754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: Only the signature sunglasses, on a day when there was barely any light to see by, and the shiny, overlapping scales on his fur-lined boots gave any clue that it was actually Crowley in front of the bookshop.





	softly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irisbleufic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/gifts).



Crowley was kicking the doorframe to rid his boots of snow by the time Aziraphale opened the door. Only the signature sunglasses, on a day when there was barely any light to see by, and the shiny, overlapping scales on his fur-lined boots gave any clue that it was actually Crowley in front of the bookshop. Between his long coat and the scarf over his face, he was almost completely covered.

“Come in, my dear.” Aziraphale stepped back, pushing the door open. He rested one hand on Crowley’s shoulder as he entered the room, startled by the chill seeping from him. “You must be freezing.”

“Like you wouldn’t _believe_.” Crowley pulled the knit hat from his head, revealing the tips of his ears, gone pink with cold, but he left on the rest of his wrappings, even the scarf.

He was shivering, the poor dear, huddled into his coat. His sunglasses had fogged over in the sudden warmth, but Crowley himself seemed just as frigid as he’d been out in the snow.

Abruptly, embarrassed that he’d forgotten, Aziraphale stumbled into a recollection of a moment from the Garden, watching Crowley lift his head to the sun after the first rainstorm, scaled body shuddering in relief as the warmth touched him.

By the time the memory faded, Crowley had shed his sunglasses and undone the first button of his coat, and was blinking at Aziraphale. “Angel?” he asked, with a worrying unsteadiness.

“Still cold-blooded, then?” Aziraphale immediately regretted his tone when Crowley’s expression crumpled and then closed off. “Don’t look at me like that, I meant no offense. I’m simply wondering what it is you’ll be needing.”

Crowley twitched and shivered, muttered something under his breath, and took the two and a half steps that was necessary to close every inch of the distance between them.

Unaccustomed to being embraced, much less clung to, Aziraphale could only settle his arms around the demon and remind his rather squeezed lungs that they didn’t actually need oxygen, and that a habit was only a habit if you kept it up.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, in as soft a voice as he could manage.

“I’m so blessedly  _cold_.” Crowley whined, loosening his grip only enough to wriggle out of his coat and paw the scarf from his face. The tip of his nose was as red as his ears, and absolutely frigid when he pressed it into Aziraphale’s neck. He was shuddering, too full-bodied and too constant to just be shivering. Something just had to be done.

“Come upstairs,” it was much a request as it is an offering, less olive-branch and more an extended hand. Half-tempted to lift the clinging demon in his arms and carry him up himself, Aziraphale started on a crooked path toward the stairs, shuffling awkwardly until Crowley took the hint and untangled himself.

Getting up to the flat above the shop seemed to take longer than usual, and even once they were settled on Aziraphale’s rickety bed, there was no clear path forward.

Leaning forward, Aziraphale cupped the demon’s cheek. Under the chill, his skin was clammy. “Are you ill?”

Crowley leaned into his touch, sniffing miserably. “Maybe. It’s been sleeting for a week, only just turned into snow.” He peered at Aziraphale through his long lashes, squinting judgementaly. His usually piercing yellow eyes were clouded. “Just in time for Christmas.”

“Dear boy, I had nothing to do with it.” Aziraphale said, primly. He pulled Crowley close again, rubbing at his shoulders. “If I had, I would have done away with the cold altogether.”

“Nice of you.” Crowley mumbled, nosing against Aziraphale’s collar. “Nice jumper, too. Soft.”

“Your nose is freezing.”

“Suffer with me.”

Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s hair and subtly willed his own body temperature higher, smiling contently when the demon snuffled and pressed closer. “Gladly.”

Outside, the snow fell. Inside, Crowley slept, and Aziraphale held him.


End file.
